


Solid

by therantygeek



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therantygeek/pseuds/therantygeek
Summary: Set in early Alexandria. You used to work with Congresswoman Monroe before the turn. Now you’re in the town doing your best to help her make the right decisions, but one of the new people that Aaron brings in catches your attention for a reason you can’t quite pin down. Then you realise you seem to have caught his attention, too.Warnings: smut, nameless reader, cussing, canon typical angst, fluff.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	Solid

You noticed him the moment he walked through the gates. Even in the midst of the worn-down, tough-looking group Aaron had brought back he stood out, and not just because he was carrying a dead possum by the tail. There was an edge to him, a solidness, not just wary but something almost bordering on shyness. It’s not what you expect from someone who looks like he could easily tear the undead apart with his bare hands, but you can’t unsee what’s there now you’ve clocked it.

At every turn he defies your expectations. You think he’ll strut or swagger but he just walks softly, quiet and discreet, like he’s trying not to be noticed even in broad daylight. You blink in surprise when he glances at you with just a neutral nod of acknowledgement. In fact you practically do a double-take when you see him holding the baby perched on his hip, with the obvious ease of much practice, totally at ease with the way the little girl fiddles with the buttons on his shirt or grabs at his shaggy hair.

Once Deanna has done the initial interviews she asks you to watch the videos with her. The new group are all quite fascinating, you have to admit, with an air of almost tangible mystery about them. It takes all of Deanna’s tricks and experience to draw them into answering questions. Their stories are uniformly horrible, reminding you once again just what you owe the former congresswoman for talking you into coming with her rather than trying to find your own way home to your family in Ohio.

The man’s name – the one you noticed – is Daryl Dixon. He’s every inch a redneck hick, from the lazy drawl of his accent to the way he sits and idly fiddles with the dead possum on his lap while Deanna questions him. But what he says spikes your interest afresh, tells you more about him than his pre-turn background.

 _The boy and the baby. They deserve a roof_.

You find yourself smiling at the odd combination of that firm statement and his obviously open scepticism as Deanna’s voice comes onto the tape again, soothing and encouraging, asking him to stay, confident that he can have a role in the community. He grunts a vague affirmative, or perhaps just agrees to shut her up, and then leaves, taking the possum with him.

‘I know that look,’ Deanna says with a little chuckle. ‘That’s the Rob McGowan look. Didn’t think this one would be your type.’

You have to laugh at that, because your blushing infatuation with the handsome young congressman from Montana was the stuff of Capitol gossip legend.

‘He’s interesting,’ you admit. ‘Has a lot of layers. He doesn’t think he’ll fit in here, but he’s planning to try for the sake of his family.’

‘The kids are Rick’s.’ But Deanna’s smiling too, knowing exactly what I mean. Family isn’t just blood relations, now more than ever, and the ties between the new group are obvious to anyone with half a brain. ‘Aaron likes him.’

You nod at that; Aaron is an outstanding judge of people. There’s a reason he’s Alexandria’s recruiter.

‘I think Daryl could make an excellent partner for him, actually,’ Deanna goes on. ‘Especially with Eric’s leg still as it is. Pete says it’ll be a couple more months at least until he’s on his feet, and he may never get full mobility back.’

You purse your lips, thinking. You don’t _like_ having to listen to Pete, knowing how he is with Jessie, but she insists she won’t leave him and Deanna maintains that a qualified surgeon is far too valuable an asset to the town to start rocking the boat with his family life. He _is_ a good doctor, though, so if he has doubts about Eric’s leg healing completely then it is worth thinking about. The idea of Daryl accompanying Aaron definitely has merit.

‘That could work,’ you say finally. ‘Aaron’s a natural diplomat but the world isn’t very friendly out there. Having someone to back him up who’s a little…less forgiving, as it were, might be a good idea.’

‘I’ll ask Aaron to put it to Daryl himself, then.’ Deanna flashes you a grin. ‘Unless you’d like me to find an excuse to keep him closer to home, of course.’

That makes you laugh, knowing she’s mostly joking with that offer.

‘No, I don’t think he’s the kind who’d like to be leashed to the fences.’

Besides, you can’t shake the feeling that the tighter one tried to hold a man like Daryl, the further away he’d slip.

He isn’t at the welcome party, which you realise shouldn’t have surprised you enough for the disappointment to in any way register. Now you’re being outright silly, expecting a handsome diamond in the rough to stride into town and sweep you off your feet. You’re not a girl any more, you’re a grown-ass woman, and you’d much rather keep your wits about you than be swept off anywhere.

So you play the good host’s helper with the others, keep the mask up just like back on the Hill in the old days, and you get to know Rick and Michonne and Sasha and Glenn and all the others, from rough-shod ex-Army Abraham Ford to deferential little Carol and shy-but-eager young Noah.

‘Mixed bag, huh?’ Spencer says to you dryly as you pop into the kitchen to refill a water jug. ‘Most of ‘em barely seem to remember how houses even work.’

‘They’ve been out there a _long_ while,’ you remind him firmly. ‘Give them time.’

‘You sound like Mom.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Prodding his shoulder pointedly as you head back to the main room, you give him a meaningful look. ‘And _stop_ trying to flirt with Maggie. Glenn could probably lay you out without thinking twice about it, so don’t give him a reason.’

‘Should I flirt with you, instead?’ he asks playfully.

‘That’ll do you about as much good as it did when you first tried,’ you shoot back laughingly. Spencer was a spotty seventeen year-old when you first met him, wrestling his three year younger brother into a headlock right outside their mother’s office. You could still picture the sudden widening of his eyes and hasty dropping of Aiden to the floor as he tried to affect nonchalant cool in the typical way of a teenager suddenly in the presence of an older woman that he thought was attractive.

Five years wasn’t _that_ much of an age gap, but it was definitely more than you were comfortable with and besides, you’d never see Spencer like that. He would always just be Deanna’s eldest to you. The gawking boy you’d had to straighten the jacket and tie of before each and every family photo opp, who’d cried and hidden in his room for a whole week when his dog had died.

As the party begins to wind down you decide to step outside for some fresh air. A light on and some industrious sounds from Aaron and Eric’s garage draws your attention and you’re walking towards it without conscious thought, the kitten heels you dug out for the evening clicking against the pavement. It sounds unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet night air. You’re about to call out to ask Aaron what in the world he’s doing clanking about his garage at such a late hour when you realise the figure hunkered down by the big toolbox isn’t Aaron at all.

It’s Daryl.

You stop at the foot of the driveway and wonder what he’s doing. He wouldn’t be in there if Aaron hadn’t invited him, that you’re sure of, but what could he possibly want in those piles of oddments?

The noise abruptly stops and he straightens, seeing you standing there. For a moment he seems unsure of what to do, almost embarrassed by your scrutiny, then very hesitantly half-raises a hand in cautious acknowledgment. You decide to close the distance and come right up to the open garage door, regarding the pieces he’s pulled from the various bins and crates.

‘Find anything useful?’ you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral but friendly, like you’re speaking to an undecided observer at a canvassing event. ‘The guys have been collecting odds and ends for ages. All looks like junk to me but I’ll admit I’ve never been very mechanically inclined.’

‘Yeah,’ he says after a beat. ‘It’s – uh – it’s good. Parts and stuff.’

You wait to see if there’s going to be anything else, and when it becomes clear there isn’t you take another step in and extend your hand. It feels a bit goofy, given the setting and situation, but you can’t think of anything else so just introduce yourself and wait. He shakes, very briefly, like your skin is somehow painful to touch, and mutters his own name back.

‘I was with the Congresswoman’s office before the turn,’ you add. ‘Started as a campaign exec back in the day, wound up her chief of communications.’ Well, that’s a stupid thing to brag about, and especially to Daryl, but you’ve said it now. He gives a small grunt of acknowledgement, the same noise he gave Deanna on the tape, and just keeps on looking at you in vaguely wary puzzlement.

‘You weren’t at the party,’ you try.

‘Nah.’ He shifts and constructs a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Ain’t really my scene.’

‘But you are planning to stay, right?’ you press. ‘Did Aaron speak to you about becoming a recruiter?’

‘Yeah.’ Another shrug. ‘Thinking about it.’

‘Well. Good.’ This reticence to talk, to engage at all, is strangely charming. His voice sounds different in person; the recording on the tape doesn’t quite replicate the full richness of his tone, like dark coffee raked over gravel. You know you want to hear more of it. ‘Do you – ah – do you know how to get back from here? I used to get turned around in the dark quite a bit at first, so-‘

‘I know the way to the damn house,’ he retorts, somewhat scornfully, but you’ve had worse sneers turned on you so you don’t flinch. He even seems almost immediately regretful, like the snap came out on reflex, so you try offering him a small smile.

‘Well, I won’t offer to walk you back, then. Don’t forget to close up before you leave, or place’ll end up full of moths and Eric _hates_ those.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll see you around, Daryl.’

He doesn’t reply so you turn to leave, but you can feel his gaze boring a hole in your back. He _does_ take the job with Aaron though, to Eric’s lasting relief, and you still see him from time to time, either when you take your turn on gate watch or just around and about the town when he isn’t out. He turns the pile of junk from the garage into a motorcycle, a real one that he’s clearly very comfortable riding, and whenever you hear the growl of the engine you find yourself actively looking for him with a secret little smile painting your lips.

When some outside runs go sour, when Noah and Aiden are both dead, you do your best to hide your shock at the fracas that ensues. Daryl’s like a wild animal, snarling and lashing out at Nicholas and Spencer, clearly holding them responsible somehow. Rick talks him down – barely – and Deanna steps in to defuse things further, somehow pushing past her younger son’s death. You do your best to comfort Reg, who you know had pinned a lot of hopes on Noah and his eagerness to learn about the walls. He brushes you off, not unkindly, and heads home with a new heaviness in his step.

Suddenly you see Daryl idly shaking his hand and on some blind instinct you approach him.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘M’fine.’

‘You’re bleeding.’ The punch he landed has split his knuckles, and he’s covered in cuts and scrapes from the run besides. ‘You should see Pete-‘

‘Ain’t going nowhere near that wife-beating fucker,’ he spits, and despite yourself, you’re impressed. Pleased. Some small part of you has wondered at his roughness, at what Rick’s group might have tolerated in their midst in the name of survival skills just as Alexandria has tolerated Pete, but the venom in his voice at that pronouncement tells you everything you need to know.

‘Then come with me,’ you try, taking his injured hand in both of yours. ‘Let me wrap it for you. I know a bit, enough to see some of those cuts need cleaning. My house is just there. It won’t take but a minute.’

Grudgingly he permits you to tow him inside, and you sit him down onto a stool in the kitchen while you grab the first aid kit. He doesn’t so much as flinch while you wipe down his knuckles and wrap his hand, nor when you dab iodine onto the worst of the grazes. None of them are deep or too bad, or and nothing looks like it was made by one of the dead, but you find your hands lingering with unnecessary slowness over his tanned, well-muscled arms and shoulders. There’s a hint of a tattoo on the inside of his right bicep, but you can’t see what it is without being too obvious in your scrutiny.

‘Thanks,’ he mutters once you’re done, avoiding your gaze, although he seems startled when you come back with a needle and thread. ‘Ain’t got nothing needs stitching.’

‘It’s for your shirt.’ You indicate the seam about to give out. He’s clearly in the habit of tearing the sleeves off by hand, and the current one is going to split to the collar without a little help. For a moment he freezes in surprise but seems to relax as you deftly reinforce the join, knotting it carefully off and giving a small tug to confirm that the mend has worked. ‘There you go.’

‘You the town tailor or something?’

‘My mom was a first class seamstress,’ you say. ‘Made all her own clothes, and mine when I was growing up. She’d turn in her grave if she knew I let someone walk around with a seam about to split.’ That’s strange; you haven’t thought about Mom in a while now and mentioning her now seems to produce only a dull echo of the more usual painful pang.

‘Huh.’ He flexes his arm as if testing the repair and seems to grudgingly accept it. ‘Well. Thanks.’

With that he hops off the stool and is gone before you can think of anything else to say, and you think that’ll be that until a few days later when there’s a knock at your door in the early evening. It takes you a moment to extricate yourself from the food stock projections you’re preparing for Deanna and Rick to review in the morning, the former sheriff already having become a firm presence in the town’s informal leadership, but when you open the door you find yourself breaking into a smile.

‘Daryl?’

‘Hey.’ He seems vaguely awkward, like he wasn’t expecting you to be glad to see him, but does shuffle inside when you gesture for him to come in. ‘Just got back from a run. Here.’

You stare at the slightly dusty pouch in his hand and gingerly take it, undoing the zip that runs all the way around the outside. Then you feel yourself _melt_. It’s a sewing kit, a lovely one, with two dozen needles of varying sizes and at least twenty different coloured threads in neat loops, plus pins and scissors and the usual associated bits and pieces.

‘That’s…’ you’re lost for words; a rare condition ‘…thank you. I never-‘

‘Yeah, well.’ He seems a bit embarrassed by your reaction. ‘You used a bunch of your stuff fixing my shirt.’

‘Oh, you didn’t need to-’

‘Yeah.’ Avoiding your gaze, he actually sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. ‘Like I said, just saw it and thought you’d like – uh – have a use for it, so…’

‘That’s so sweet.’ You shut my mouth firmly to stifle an inappropriately girlish giggle as he goes a rather adorable shade of pink to the tops of his ears. ‘I mean it. You didn’t need to – I mean I’d never have asked for-.’

‘S’fine.’

Before you can overthink it any more, you step towards him and lean up to plant a firm kiss on his cheek.

‘Thank you, Daryl’

He outright boggles at you for a moment, like you’ve just done something downright scandalous, and then gives a single hurried nod before heading for the door at double time. It slams a little behind him, likely from haste than anything else, but you don’t make any effort to stop the smile that snuck out. There’s something vaguely secretive about the whole encounter, like he’d for some reason taken it upon himself to sneak the stupid thing into the town without Aaron or anyone else seeing, and you suspect that not very many people got to see Daryl Dixon blush like a schoolboy, either.

After the night Pete goes off the rails and kills Reg, you find yourself wishing Daryl is there. Rick shoots Pete right between the eyes at point blank range, splattering blood and brains all over the sidewalk. The sight of it nearly makes you retch, but you force it back because Deanna is almost oblivious to externals, Spencer is shellshocked, Jessie is in pieces and it feels like the town might implode. Gabriel helps you, and Abraham gets Rick under control, and eventually things calm a little, but it isn’t until after dawn that you finally get home and collapse onto your sofa, too exhausted even to weep. Poor, gentle, kind Reg, who designed the walls that have kept everyone safe, gone just like that, and from someone who was supposed to be a _doctor_ , to _save_ people…

You’re helping Deanna to pack up Reg’s things to go down to the Pantry, just two days later, when Aaron and Daryl come back from their latest run outside. They’ve brought some supplies but no new people. You hear raised voices as the events are recounted, try to focus on what you’re doing and ignore them.

When you make your way home that evening, you don’t expect Daryl to step off the porch of his group’s house and fall into step beside you. But he does.

‘You okay?’ he asks you after a moment.

‘I’m fine.’ You shake your head. ‘It was just…horrible.’

‘Rick did what he had to do. You get that, right?’

‘I know.’ You wish you feel as certain as you sound. ‘Deanna told him to. But it was just…the whole thing…’

‘Yeah. I get it.’ His hands go back to his pockets. ‘Sorry about the old man. He seemed like a good guy.’

‘He was.’ You pause as you reach your door, feeling like you need to make the confession. ‘I wish you’d been here.’

He frowns.

‘Why?’

‘I…don’t know,’ you admit. ‘I just do. Rick is just – I don’t know. He scares me, a lot of the time. But you, you’re just-‘ you try to find the words, feeling more than a little foolish ‘-solid. Safe. I mean, I know you’ll fight too, like after the run when Noah died, but it seems like if you fly off it makes _sense_ , somehow…’

‘Rick’s handled a lot of shit,’ Daryl says.

‘I know.’ Now you feel guilty for voicing the sentiment. ‘I don’t blame him. What you’ve been through – what you’ve all been through, out there – I can’t even begin to imagine. But I can’t help the way I feel. And now Rick’s more or less in charge, and I know Pete was beyond out of line even _before_ what he did to Reg, but with Jessie in the middle of it too-‘

‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘Shitshow.’

For some reason that verdict, calm and resigned, is the most comforting thing you’ve heard since it all kicked off. You look up at him and try to keep your composure.

‘Thank you, Daryl.’

‘Huh?’ That clearly baffles him. ‘For what?’

‘Checking in. Listening.’ You manage a smile. ‘Being you.’

He makes a face at that, like the words have a bad smell, and snorts.

‘Ain’t nothing.’

‘It is. It _is_ something.’ Then, because you know you’ve been looking for the excuse, you tilt your head up and kiss him softly on the cheek, just like when he brought you the sewing kit. ‘So thank you.’

As you move back he turns his head a little and for one breathless moment you think he’s going to kiss you, and not on the cheek, either. But he just drops his eyes and mumbles something you don’t catch before hurrying back across the street.

That’s the first night since Reg died that you don’t have nightmares.

The world carries on, impossible as it seems, and Deanna carries on, and she’s noticeably less than she was but she steps back up, keeps Rick in hand, and for a while you think maybe things will be better. But then after the attacks, the fire, the enormous herd, when you realise she’s gone, for a long moment you feel like you can’t breathe. Deanna was more than your friend. She was your mentor, your teacher, the person who made you everything you are, and the thought of going on without her is beyond unbearable. You force yourself to carry on, somehow, robotically stacking the dead outside to burn them while Abraham and Tobin get the walls back up. What else can you do?

When it is dark again you sit on your couch, staring blankly out of the front window. You can’t even cry. You’re just numb, drained, can’t even think of doing what Betsy did, of escaping the only way that’s left, because there’s nothing but blankness where the world used to be.

The knock at your door startles you and for a long moment you just stare at it. It comes again, louder this time, and still in half a daze you get to your feet, go to the door, open it.

‘You okay?’ Daryl asks, and for some reason that gentle question is what breaks you. Clapping a hand to your mouth in a vain effort to stifle a sob, you feel the tears finally escape and have to lean against the wall as your legs give out under you.

Nobody has asked you. Nobody has checked on you. Until now. Until him.

He steps over the threshold and catches you as you begin to slide downwards, half walking and half carrying you back to the sofa. When you curl into him and bury your face in his chest he seems rather taken aback, but you’re too far gone to really care; he’s strong and safe and _there_ and that’s all that matters right now.

It seems like a long time before you’re cried out, reduced to sniffles and gasps. You’ve soaked the front of his shirt but he doesn’t seem to notice, or to care, sitting there with one arm loosely around you. Cautious. Patient.

‘I’m sorry,’ you blurt but he just shakes his head.

‘Ain’t nothing to be sorry for. You lost your mom, right? Only now you lost her again.’

That’s it, that’s _absolutely it_ , and you feel tears well up again despite your best efforts. How is it that the rest of the town just seems a little confused at your reaction but this man, this strange and quiet man most of them write off as nothing but a stupid redneck prepper or lucky trailer park trash, he _gets_ it? You look up at him, blinking your eyes clear, and in place of the numbness something _swells_ in your chest, something warm and glowing and _good_ with him right in the heart of it.

He seems to realise you’re staring, gives you a glance of mild puzzlement, and his sweet obliviousness to the effect he’s having on you just makes you feel it more. You lean up and kiss him before you can really comprehend what you’re doing. For an instant he freezes in shock but then he’s kissing you back, chapped lips rough against yours, tongue sliding out along the seam of your mouth. You let him in, reaching up to cup his cheeks in your palms and leaning into him with your whole body. His hands arrive at your waist, pulling you closer, one sliding around and up your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you to him.

Warmth flares into heat, a sharp pang between your hips, and with a small noise you press closer, willingly stoking it into a blaze. His grip on you tightens, and against your belly you feel the rising swell of his cock. The knowledge that he wants this, that he wants _you_ , makes your head swim in a way it never has before.

So when he suddenly breaks off and pulls away you all but sob in protest, reaching back for him.

‘Nah.’ He shakes his head violently, looking away from you and biting his lip. ‘Ain’t right.’

‘But I _want_ this,’ you cry. ‘Daryl, I want _you_. Please-‘

‘You don’t know what you want,’ he says firmly. ‘You’re hurtin,’ and I ain’t taking advantage.’

‘No,’ you insist. ‘You aren’t. This isn’t just some grief-addled impulse. I _know_ what I want, and-‘

‘Said _no_.’ Actually standing up, he scrubs a hand over his face. ‘It ain’t right.’

‘Don’t you-‘ you stumble over the words ‘-I mean, do you not want to-‘

‘Course I _want_ to,’ he snaps, sounding angry, but whether at you or himself isn’t clear. ‘But not now. Not like this. It ain’t _right_.’

You let go of him and sit up properly, hunching your shoulders in defeat. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are being stupid, taking advantage of _him_ because you’re in pain and he’s a good enough person not to want to see you like this. He came to check on you and you just threw yourself at him, even if he was kissing you back and touching you like he _wanted_ to take it further…

‘Please don’t go,’ you whisper miserably when he takes a step. ‘Please.’

‘Not goin’ anywhere.’ He plucks your cardigan off the back of a nearby chair and then sits back down next to you, tucking it around your shoulders. ‘But no funny business, right?’

That deadpan instruction makes you smile despite everything. You lean against his side, exhale slowly when he puts an arm carefully around you and lets you tuck your head under his chin. The sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, the inexplicable comfort of his presence, lulls your eyes closed.

You don’t remember falling asleep but you wake up in your bed, shoes off and with the blankets pulled over you. It takes you a moment to recall the previous few days, but in place of the numbness you expect to well up there’s only a wash of strange calm. Deanna’s gone, yes, like so many others. She’s with Reg now, and with Aiden, but you’re still here. And you aren’t the only one.

The ache never quite goes away but it does diminish, slowly and gradually, until you can almost think about her without your chest feeling tight. You go to the town meetings, take minutes, help Olivia manage the supplies in the Pantry, take turns on the gate, all the things you’ve always done, but now it’s Rick you warn about the dwindling foodstuffs, Rick you advise on the need to find something to repair the northern solar panels, Rick who listens intently and goes quiet to think and issues instructions to make things happen. He asks your opinion more than you expect, pays attention to it, leans on you for more than you thought he would. His boy, Carl, is recovering despite the horrific gunshot he took to the eye during the siege. Everyone is recovering, somehow, even with the losses and memory of the fire and horror of that awful night.

Aaron argues about stopping the recruitment runs but you talk him down. Let everyone calm down, breathe, re-adjust. Come up with a new approach that’s safer for the town, that doesn’t trust as much, that won’t welcome in those who could so easily do so much harm. The dead aren’t the only threat, that’s clear now.

You see Daryl now and then, at a distance. He’s steering a little clear of you, and maybe you’re avoiding him a bit, too. But whenever you spot him you’re drawn to look at him, inclined towards him in the same way that a leaf can’t help but turn to face the sun. When you see him joke with Carol, play with baby Judith, talk openly to Michonne, the old tightness comes back to your chest, but you know it isn’t grief that winds it.

It’s a few weeks after Spencer returns from the woods with his head hung, crying and mumbling about _ending it_ for his mother, when Daryl comes to your door again. He’s back from another supply run and has brought you a battered cookie tin he found, someone’s old sewing box filled with spools and spools of thread. You thank him, laughing at the clumsy sweetness of the gesture, manage to get him inside for a drink, but when you turn back from flicking the kettle on you don’t expect to find yourself suddenly in his arms.

‘You asked me if I wanted to,’ he says gruffly, locking his gaze fixedly with yours. His eyes are steel blue-grey like a winter’s sky up close, and you feel like you could swim in them forever. ‘If I wanted _you_.’

‘You said you did,’ you manage, swallowing hard. ‘You – you said it wasn’t right.’

‘Weren’t then.’ One of his hands comes up, callused fingers gently touching your face as though he might break you somehow. ‘But it ain’t then no more. So.’

‘So?’ you press, desperate and hopeful and pleading. He huffs a little.

‘I ain’t got no moves. Don’t know what a woman like you wants. But the way you look at me…’

You kiss him then, firmly and insistently, and this time he leans right into it, crowding you against the kitchen counter with a low, masculine groan that makes your stomach flip over. When you put your arms around his neck he stoops a little and lifts you up, carrying you over to all but toss you on your back onto the couch. You actually bounce a couple of times but ignore the springs creaking their objections as you sit up to pull him down with you. The feel of his body over yours is beyond exhilarating, so much broad muscle and sinew pulled taut with tension as he drops his head to _devour_ your mouth, all pretence of hesitance gone.

Already you can feel him standing proud against your thigh and you pop the buttons on his shirt, wanting it gone. He lets you strip it from him one arm at a time in between hauling your blouse off over your head and wrestling your bra clip undone with one hand under your back. You can’t help but gasp as he plucks at your nipples with thumb and forefinger before leaning in to suckle deeply on them each in turn. There’s nothing but heat and want between your legs now and you scrabble to get his belt and pants undone, unconsciously licking your lips as the heavy weight of his cock lands in your palm. He gives another groan, grinding reflexively into you as he pops the button on your jeans and starts tugging them down, returning his lips to yours for another hungry kiss while he does.

There’s a pair of thuds as he kicks his boots off and then he levers up off you for several agonising moments to strip off the remainder of both of your clothes. You open your legs when he covers you again, feeling his hips settle between them like he was made to fit there. His chest and back are a messy topography of old scars and wounds but you don’t dwell on them now because this is Daryl and he’s solid and strong and _here_ , right here with you, and that’s all that matters, _he’s_ all that matters now.

‘Fuck, you-‘ he stifles a gasp ‘-you safe?’

It takes a second to realise what he means and you almost laugh out loud at the thought of it. Your IUD will be good for years yet but even if it wasn’t you don’t think you’d care. Let him fuck you raw, fill you up, give him a litter of strong children with beautiful steel-blue eyes to make your heart and the heart of Alexandria whole again.

‘I’m good,’ you tell him. ‘Please. Need you.’

That does it. With a grunt he begins to slide into you, a deliciously burning stretch that has you arching against him, dragging your nails down his rugged back and pressing your forehead into his shoulder. He bottoms out with a little huff that makes you giggle, and as he starts to draw back out you hook your left foot up, over his waist and the firm meat of his ass, pushing impatiently to make him step up the pace.

To your frustration he keeps things slow for the next half a dozen strokes, kissing you deeply while his hands roam your body with unashamed exploratory squeezes and caresses. The slow drag of his cock is the most exquisite agony, leaving you all but sobbing in desperation for more of it, but before you can summon the wherewithal to actually beg he shifts, replanting his knees and finally, blessedly, speeding up his thrusts to a steadily punishing pace that hammers you down against the couch padding. You cry out when he snakes a hand down between your bodies to pinch at your clit, sending spasms of near-painful pleasure ricocheting up and down your spine.

‘Give it up,’ he pants, levering himself up on one elbow to look down at you through the veil of his shaggy hair. ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you. C’mon.’

Like even your body can’t resist the instruction you’re powerless to do anything but squirm and writhe when the feeling peaks, singing through bones and blood as it explodes over you like a tidal wave. He groans approval, the snap of his hips losing its rhythm, almost stuttering as he follows you over the edge. Your pussy is flooded but he doesn’t stop, continuing to pump into you until the last echoes have all but faded away.

When he pulls out it’s in a positive gush of wetness and you try not to giggle at the ill-timed thought that the couch is going to need a _thorough_ scrubbing tomorrow. The notion vanishes as for an instant as something almost like shame flits across his face, distorting the breathless visage of contentment that has briefly taken over. You reach up and tangle your fingers through his hair, stroking and smoothing it, waiting until he looks at you again.

‘Hey. You okay?’

‘You…you want me to go?’ he asks, almost brokenly, and you realise he’s _expecting_ it. He’s _expecting_ to be thrown out now like an unwelcome house guest. How many women have done that to him, you wonder in horror, got the taste of a bit of rough like they wanted, and then tossed him aside?

‘No,’ you say firmly. ‘Stay. Please.’

For a moment he’s openly surprised, then turns slightly and noses at your palm almost longingly.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ Leaning up, you pull him into a deep kiss. ‘ _So_ sure. Daryl, I-‘

‘Don’t,’ he says quickly. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘Won’t stop me thinking it,’ you reply. ‘Or feeling it.’ Starting to sit up as he does, you nestle close against his side and find yourself inwardly marvelling at how you don’t feel even a little bashful at your nakedness. You’re normally one to grab for the sheets and cover up, blushing, when the moment has passed. But it doesn’t feel that way with him. You’re fairly sure it never would.

‘Come to bed with me,’ you tell him, standing up boldly and tilting his chin up so he looks at you. ‘And stay with me, please? Stay with me for – for good?’

He blinks in surprise, like he can’t quite believe what he just heard.

‘Life’s too short, these days most of all, to beat about the bush,’ you point out. ‘I want you. With me. Please?’

Slowly, he stands up as well and puts his hands on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You nibble at your lower lip, feeling his cock already getting hard again and pressing into your belly.

‘You don’t hardly know nothing about me,’ he says. ‘Not really.’

‘Then tell me.’ You kiss him, lingeringly. ‘Show me.’

‘I ain’t what you think.’

‘You are what you are.’ Turning your head, you lean your cheek against his chest and feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. ‘Safe. Solid. Here. I want you. Want you to be mine. Want to be yours. For as long as we can be.’

He noses at your cheek until you glance up at him again, and there’s a hint of entreaty in his eyes.

‘You do? I ain’t nothing special, you know.’

‘I disagree.’ You smooth his hair down gently around his face. ‘Isn’t that the whole point?’

That actually makes him give you a tiny shadow of a smile and you can’t help but beam back, hugging him tightly.

‘All right.’ He puts his arms around you in turn and kisses the top of your forehead. ‘I guess it kinda is.’

‘Good.’ You give him a squeeze and then step away towards the bedroom, biting at your bottom lip to stop a rather dirty smirk from sneaking out. ‘So come to bed with me. I’m thinking I could help you out with that…uh…not so little problem you have there.’

That gets a dry snort but he rounds the sofa and follows you as you head into the other room with a deliberately exaggerated sway of your hips.

Maybe it will last. Maybe it won’t. But for now he’s here, and he’s strong and real and solid in your arms, and that’s more than enough.


End file.
